Mud

  He skims over Miriam and looks to me. The thin lips part to say, “Why don’t we have this conversation alone?”

  Miriam folds her arms over her chest. If she feels the fear as I do, she doesn’t show it. “Because he doesn’t need t—” Abazel stretches out a single spindly finger and touches Miriam’s forehead. Miriam goes blank and idle. Empty. Like when I first found her on the boat.

  “Miriam?” I grab her arm. “Miriam!”

  Blazing flames of dread lick over my body. Under it, a rush of secret relief betrays me. Her feet begin to shift, to drift her away.

  I pull her back to me. “Miriam!” Shake her by the shoulders. Try to pull her out of it like I did before.

  “It won’t work this time,” Abazel says.

  I whip around to him. My fear of him is consumed by hate.

  “What did you do? What’s wrong with her?”

  But he smiles. A grimacing, teeth-baring smile. “Nothing is wrong with her. She is as she should be in my realm.”

  “Miriam!” I yell in her face, shake her as hard as I can. “Miriam! Miriam! Miriam!”

  “She’d only have kept getting worse.” His words are cold. “Is that what you want for her? For her to keep up this struggle until her mind dissolves?”

  Lies. My mind hisses. Don’t trust him, not for a second.

  But I know better. I saw enough to understand where it was heading.

  I slowly release my fingers from her shoulders. She blinks at me without seeing, then blankly turns and drifts away. I watch her as long as I can as she disappears into the haze, a darkness welling up from my gut.

  “There. Now we can talk,” Abazel says.

  He takes a deep breath and whistles, a sound quick and clear that cuts through the thick air. A shadow dashes from out of nowhere and materializes on his shoulder, turning into a creature with dark skin that clings to its bones and feral pointed teeth.

  Just like the creatures from the realm trap.

  Just like the strange shadow trailing us since the treasures.

  It’s real.

  A slow sinking sensation fills me. It was following us. The anger fuels the fire of my hate.

  It whispers into Abazel’s ear, purring chirps like taunting laughter. A bolt of nerves shoots through me. How much does it know?

  The light still wrestles anxiously inside me, strains for me to keep moving forward. Rona, find Rona. But I dig in my heels. Wait to see what the demon tells his king.

  When its chirping ceases, Abazel scratches its head, then folds his hands together, spindly fingers pointing to his chin. He takes a step closer through the haze.

  “You’ve made quite a stir. I have never felt the realm so uneasy,” Abazel says. His voice is thin, quiet. “But do not mistake your foolishness for victory. When the boatman told me of what you came to do, we laughed. Many before have tried to save someone from death. None have succeeded. We did not think you would make it even this far.”

  The back of my hands prickle. The Keeper betrayed us, just as Miriam said he would. What else has he learned of my plans? I rummage through my mind for everything I told the Keeper. All the demon may have learned from watching me. Not everything. But enough. Enough to ruin it all.

  Did he tell Abazel about the box? My breast pocket quivers, four pointed corners pressed against my skin.

  Abazel continues. Something dark hovers around him.

  “This is the problem with you creatures of Terath. Always meddling, negotiating, and trying to get around the Gods’ rules. Unable to accept your place in the Order, yet unwilling to fight to break free of it. You have left us to take up your fight for you, and then turned your backs on us when we lost.” His voice is slow, cold, calculated.

  It takes me a moment to understand what he means. “The Realm Wars.”

  Find Rona, find Rona, find Rona. The light beats its demanding rhythm inside me.

  “Yes,” he says. “I was the first to break free and see the Gods for the tyrants they are. Did you know that?”

  I didn’t. The Texts don’t tell much about the creatures who rebelled. Just that they fought to break the Order.

  Abazel continues. “I showed the others what was possible when you let go of the Gods and dared to think beyond them—free will. We would have been content to go our own way and rule ourselves, but the Gods would not let us. They forced their Order upon us.”

  Abazel shakes his head. His focus has drifted off to somewhere far away.

  “After the First War, in the wake of the destruction they provoked, the Three saw the error in their ways and tried something new. Man.”

  The word shoots off his tongue as if spitting out spoiled fruit.

  “They gave men free will. They hoped if they did not hold them so close, that men would not see in them what we did, I suppose. But, cowards that They are, the Three cut them off from the powers we enjoy.”

  Something twitches in the shadow that surrounds him. I lean closer to see what it is, squint into the haze.

  Wings.

  Large, inky-black wings. Just like Kythiel’s.

  The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. Abazel isn’t a demon.

  “You’re an angel.” But he can’t be. “Angels can’t enter the Underworld.”

  “The Gods created the rules,” he sighs. “And the Gods made an exception. It takes its toll, withering away in this darkness. And yet so it is. We are but pawns in the Gods’ game.”

  He pauses. Looks down to his frail, thin hands.

  Takes its toll—I’ve only just gotten here and already I’m ridden with pain and cold. I can only imagine how the ages down here have weighed down on him.

  “Which brings me back to my point. The Three favored their newest creation, the humans, and it sowed envy among the First Creatures. More and more joined our numbers. Even some men. Again, we fought, and again we were defeated. The Second Realm War. The Three bound us here, to the in-between of the Underworld. But a Third War was foretold, and we knew our time would come. This time we will be ready.”

  I’m only half listening, my eyes still gazing at his dark wings. But Abazel, his war, his Gods, are not why I am here. The light throbs inside me, bursting wild, bright, and hot. Find Rona. It grows impatient, and so do I.

  “This has nothing to do with me,” I say.

  “You entangled yourself in our fate when you crossed over into the Underworld,” Abazel says. “We have been preparing for the Third Realm War here in our exile for hundreds of years. And now you have brought us our chance. When you broke through, you weakened the barrier the Three created to hold us here.”

  My racing thoughts come crashing to a halt. Don’t believe his lies. I step back, out of his reach. Enough talking. “What do you want from me?”

  “Stay,” he says.

  “What?” It doesn’t make sense. My mind rejects it, refuses to understand.

  “Stay in the Underworld,” Abazel presses. “You will prepare with us. And fight with us, when we’re ready. Why accept a world dominated by the commands of Gods and makers who do nothing for you? You can choose; you can make a difference here. Stay. Join us.”

  The light throbs in my head, pulses at the edges of my vision. I shut my eyes against it and try to process Abazel’s preposterous suggestion. Me, fight in the Realm Wars?

  The light surges, swarms within my head. I shake it side to side. “Your fight is not my fight.”

  “And what is your fight? Finding Rona? Is that your great cause?” Abazel snaps.

  The words hit me like a bolt of lightning. I told the Keeper many things. Too much. But I didn’t say her name. Not even to Miriam.

  The demon is chittering into his ear again.

  A buzzing terror rises over me like a fever. “How—”

  “You can’t hide anything from me, Adem,” Abazel cuts in. “The demons can sense your thoughts.”

  No wonder his lies are so powerful. He knows just what to say, I’m giving him all he needs to do it. My throat ti
ghtens. The light pounds inside me. I have to find Rona; I have to leave this place as fast as I can.

  The demon chirps into Abazel’s ear again. I try to stop my thoughts and lock them away, but they only churn out faster.

  Abazel smiles, an awful and strange baring of his teeth. “You have nothing to fear from me. We should be working together. Do you know the power you possess within your particles?”

  Why do they all keep insisting there is power in me? The light bursts through me, buzzing between every particle of my being, and I am helpless against it, against Abazel, against the box’s pull, against everything. But it is all I’ve heard since I stepped out of my temple’s shelter, and I cannot stand it anymore.

  “I am nothing,” I growl.

  “That’s what makes you so curious.” Abazel says. “You should be nothing. What magic is mingled with that common dirt? That you hold together at all is a wonder itself. And yet … well. No pain. No death. On Terath you are invincible. So many seek me out for these gifts, thinking it is something I can grant. I cannot. And yet some human was able to grant them to you.”

  No pain? Not here. It’s spreading over me from my shoulder still, regaining its hold on me through the light's disorienting high. No death? I’m closer to it than I’ve ever been, every breath heaving and hard, the realm’s tug stealing my energy.

  The light writhes, angry and urgent and turning my head woozy. I’ve got to get away from Abazel. I have to find Rona. She’s somewhere out there, in the sea of souls just beyond him. I look out over the flickering glow with longing.

  But he keeps going.

  “I know what you want,” Abazel presses. The weariness of my long journey bears down on me. The wounds in my back and side fester like licking flames. The light is draining on my energy, pounding through me every second. Its demand rolls through me like thunder. Find Rona.

  “You want a soul. You want to be human.”

  The strange smile spreads over his lips again. I can see the forced ways his face creases to make room for it. I can see each tooth, small, jagged, and sharp.

  Resentment rises in me like a sandstorm.

  “Why do you so badly wish to join the lesser beings of Terath? A soul!” he scoffs. “Look around you, Adem,” He points past him into the Pits. “Look what it does to a being to compound soul with the material. Don’t you see how feeble they are? Look at how they waste away, too frail even to stand. They are weak, they cannot take on the things that we can.”

  He pauses. Watches me. Waits for a reaction.

  I don’t give him one.

  “Did my brother Kythiel tell you he can give you this? He was always one to take the easiest path. But he cannot do it.” The terrible smile still floats on his face. I hate it. "Why don't you think I offer you one? I would if I could. But I can't. None but the Gods can."

  My stomach lurches.

  But no. I won’t listen. This is just more lies. Like the shore and the not-Jordan. A trick to make me stay.

  “Tell me, Adem. What else do you want? Glory? Fight with us and it will be yours. Riches? Peace? I can give you these things. More than you could dream of.”

  He will say anything to keep me from finding Rona. Stop listening. I have to get past him, into the Pits.

  “I want Rona.”

  Abazel blinks. “I could even return you to your little shore in the mountains after the Wars, if that is what you want. It’s still there, you know. You could stay there for all of eternity.”

  The emptiness within me aches to do it.

  But no.

  “Don’t give in to his lies, Adem. Stay. Fight with us.”

  Me, fight in the Realm Wars? No.

  No more blood.

  No more deaths.

  Only my own. Only when, after all this, Kythiel gives me my soul, and I live out my years in peace and quiet until finally, finally, finally I pass on and return here the right way. The next time I am here will be for my final rest. To cross over. Only when my body finally breaks and I take all of its violence and secrets and burdens with me back into the ground.

  But first, I must finish this. First, I must find Rona.

  She is here, among the sea of sagging souls at my feet.

  Get away from here. Before Abazel can further poison my thoughts. This is what I need to do.

  The light burns bright and hot inside me, writhes and tugs with impatience. I give into it.

  It pulls me forward, down into the Pits.

  I follow. Stride around Abazel, bracing myself for a fight as I pass him. But he just eyes me coolly, his arms crossed over his chest. Why won’t he stop me? A flash of fear crashes over me, but the light surges against it. I reach the ledge and lower myself into the rancid splits in the ground, into the awful stench of death.

  “Rona! Rona!”

  Can she hear me?

  Would she have it in her to respond if she did?

  “Rona!”

  I roar her name as loud as I can. It is swallowed in the haze.

  But I will find her if I have to check every last soul in the realm. The light will lead me. Won’t let me stop until I do.

  The chill in the Pits is almost unbearable, even with the light to combat it. They wrestle through me, battling flashes of fire and ice. The air is filled with a dense slippery stench that hangs in the thick haze like seaweed. Its film seeps into my skin, illuminated by the broken light of the flickering souls sprawled around me, scabbed, rotting, and dim.

  “You waste your time,” Abazel calls down to me. He trails my steps from the ledge. “You will never find her.”

  Abazel and his demon tower over me from the ledge. He’s smiling that monstrous thin smile. This is why he let me pass. He’s toying with me. He’s this sure I won’t succeed. But then why bother showing himself at all?

  “I will.”

  I have to. Without her, there is nothing else. I must bring her back. Must get my soul. Abazel’s lies only make me more determined.

  “Try if you must. It will not matter,” he shrugs.

  But he is watching me too carefully—he’s worried. I try to block him out. Let the light guide me.

  “It is a pity to see you go to such waste. You could be so much more than the puppet they have made you,” he calls down to me. “They feed you commands and you unquestioningly ingest them as if they were your own will.”

  My mouth goes dry like parchment. A puppet? Not for long. Not with a soul. But first, Rona.

  I crouch to one of the souls at my feet. It is curled in on itself like a wounded dog, its light obscured by a number of dark flecks, sores, festering infection. Its head is buried under its arms.

  I reach out my hand, my fingers straining to recoil. I force them steady and place them on the soul’s arm. My fingers slide against a grungy film covering it as I pull it toward me to uncover its face. Chills burst up my arm.

  It gives in without any sign that it feels my hand. Its head rolls toward me. Dried and cracked and blank, puckered in like a skull.

  But it’s not her.

  I step to the next one, untangling its limp form and lifting its head.

  Not her.

  “Look at all you have suffered protecting their interests. Your maker, and now Kythiel. All those murders you watched yourself perform. The ages you have spent alone and afraid. The injuries and risks you have taken getting here. Even that Epoh woman, she bound you to the child, and you just added it to your burdens without thought.”

  That Epoh woman. As if Miriam was nothing. As if none of this meant anything.

  I don’t look up. Try to block him out, focus on quieting the rage that rumbles through me.

  “Do you not feel the weight of it all, Adem? Do you not feel them pressing down on you? All those strings binding you to them, forcing your hand? They are beginning to tangle and knot. They will tie you down completely, if you let them.”

  It’s unstoppable. His words leak into my mind like poison, seep in the cracks.

  Because I can
feel them.

  The strings.

  Pulling, always pulling me in all directions. They tug at me all the time, weigh down my every step. There is no choice that is mine. There is only the strings. And now that I feel them, I know they were always there.

  One twinges at me now, pulls me back to focus. The light demands that I find Rona.

  I step to the next soul.

  Not her.

  “Where is she?”

  I feel the seed he’s planted within me growing, twisting around the strings. Questions and doubt choke my brain like weeds.

  Not now. I can’t do this now. Get Rona. Get out.

  Find her.

  I will.

  Each soul I touch shoots another chill through me. They ball together in my core, a piercing cold I can no longer ignore. My teeth begin to rattle.

  The demon chirps into Abazel’s ear. Abazel listens, and then nods.

  The demon leaps into the air, dissolves into a burst of shadow, and then twists back together into a new shape. A shape that fills me with rage and longing.

  The shape of not-Jordan.

  “Please stay,” it says. “We will go back to the sea.”

  It is cruel, how accurate the demon’s figment is. The same bright wild hair. The wide eager grin. It tears at my core.

  “Don’t you like us? Stay and protect us. Please. Don’t let the realm’s barrier break. Not yet.”

  I breathe in deep to steady the wild pulsing within me. Step to the ledge.

  I grab the child—not real, not real, not real—by his shirt and lift him up, squirming against me, so he is level with my face. I look deep into those false gray eyes. Something inside me pleads to put him down, follow him back to the shore and just let all this pain, all these choices and burdens end.

  “No.”

  It shatters into shadow and slips through my fingers. I roar into the fluttering chaos. “Where is Rona?” My voice breaks under the weight of the question.

  For a heaving pause, all I can hear in the wake of my howl is the faint moans of the dead and inside my head the charged buzz of adrenaline. The after burn of not-Jordan’s image is behind my eyes when I blink. I shake it away. I keep pushing through the souls, checking each one. Each one I touch adds to the cold. As I reach out my hand, I realize I’m shivering.